A Day in the Life
by ami-chan200
Summary: Old West. Chaucer and eventually the rest of the Seven's horses shares his perspective on his rider, Ezra, and their current situation.
1. Chaucer

Forgive my misspellings, as I am certain I didn't catch nearly all of them. I should, eventually soon be getting a new computer in which, I suspect, Word will work perfectly and spellcheck will once more be within my grasp. lol

A Day in the Life...

Of Chaucer

by Ami-chan

There are certain qualities I simply detest in a rider - the unmannerly sort, the crude, loathsome language of interferior equestrians that demand rather than request. I have always been a rather sensitive being and as such require a different sort of rider. I have suffered brusque attitudes and pure boorishness the likes of which I have no desire to see again. Then a certain set of green eyes fell upon me and I have never been the same since.

As is typical enough with my Ezra, he won me in a card game as he had, at the time, been lacking a horse of any kind. I assume he lost it in a previous gamble of some nature, or perhaps it was shot - a hazzard of the job - or he sold it because it was far too old. I only know that he has promised to never gamble me away for I am far too worthy. Though it may be that his previous horse was rather on the stupid side. One never can tell.

I know exactly what it is that Ezra P. Standish - the "P" is for Percival, though he very much hates that name - needs and I am fully capable of carrying out those needs. I always know when a con is afoot or when there might otherwise be trouble by merely being obervant and, of course, I am always prepared for every eventuality. Usually, when the situation demands it, Ezra leaves me saddled and either in a stall where the door is only partially latched or at a hitching post with my reins tied in such a way that the slightest pressure will pull them free. If necessary I can open stall doors myself, either by the latch or by breaking down the door. I only had to break one door down, though, the horrid latch was impossible on that one.

Ezra, unlike many other men I've encountered, is a true gentleman. A very rare find, indeed. He asks nothing of me that he would not suffer himself, which means he is certain that I have the best of care and most suitable environment for my illustrious self. In turn I take care of him in every way I possibly can, returning courtesy for courtesy. There is very little I would not do for Ezra, though I will say that jumping that cliff had been a sort of leap of faith as it were. Luckily my faith was not misplaced as there was a handy body of water to fall into and the drop was not so much. That had been a narrow escape there, but as always we both remained intact.

So, it really wasn't so hard a task to perform "tricks" as it were, for the amusement of his friends. Yes, they are friends, amazing as it seems and they have done wonders with him - I had feared that the only beings he could trust were of the four-legged sort and as lovely a thought as that was, considering Ezra's level of trust in me, always been distrustful of his own kind does him no good. Granted some of them can't be trusted, there are far too many dodgy ones, but these men are not amongst them. Some of them could bathe more often... but they are good, even if their smell is sometimes questionable.

Usually my tricks are used only as a ploy for money and though I know Ezra has take up bets I know this is really just for the enjoyment of it. He's using me to show off. And why not? He's told me enough I'm worth my weight in gold so showing me off is only reasonable. I don't mind the attention. Just so long as those gruddy sorts steer well clear of me. I'd hate to dent my shoes on their heads.

I'm free of any restraints at all, no saddle, no halter, nothing. People are gathered on either side of the street to watch, fully expecting me to run at all the noise - some men are purposely yelling to try to spook me and several shot off a few bullets before an evil glare from Mr. Larabee made them decide that that was not a good idea. I don't move. Naturally. I am far too stable to fall for their petty chatter. My eyes are on Ezra.

His signals are subtle, a flick of the hand, a nod in one direction or another, but I follow them. Step, step, back, back, side, side, like a sort of dance. I turn and turn, lifting my feet high and prancing as if I were performing for the most influential audence possible and not for a ratty little town's occupants. Not that I'm doing this for them. No, never. This is for Ezra.

The amazement of our audience, their praise is all lost to me. It's Ezra's smile and the light in his eyes that make me quiver with happiness. At his gesture I easily pace toward him and slid to a halt, lowering my head to nudge his shoulder. He collects his money and beams as the other men - the Seven, as they are often called - express their astonishment.

"All this time you've been ridin' a circus performer and you never told us?" Buck is the first to ask, surprised more than indignant.

"I assure you Chaucer has never been involved in any circus performances, he is merely a highly intelligent horse." I nod my head at the assessment. Then, my ears twitch back as I hear a couple of offers to buy me. _Buy_ me. It happens, more often than I like, but I am still offended. When a hand lands on my rump, that was the last straw. My ears flattened and I whirled around, nearly taking the man's hand off. Had I been truly malicious I could have, but I truly only wished him to remove his filthy hand from my person.

Ezra stepped in immediately, his sharp whistle recalling my attention, as his hand turned me gently away from the man. I noticed that everyone backed away from me, so I already had fulfilled my intended purpose. I can tell the other Seven are shocked at my reaction, but Ezra isn't. I am civil only to those who are civil to me. "I am afraid that my horse is not nor ever will be for sale. Even if he was, he would be more likely to land you in an early grave than demonstrate his considerable skills."

I lashed my tail. Damn straight.

"And here you've been sayin' that Chauce is so 'dignified and mannerly' and he ain't no better than Peso!"

Ezra and I both snorted at the comparison. "Hardly, Mr. Tanner. That creature you call a horse is always a cantankerous beast, but Chaucer is at least a perfect gentleman for me. I cannot say the same for your relationship with Peso."

"How'd you teach him those tricks?" JD butted in, clearly impressed and ignoring my momentarily rude behavior except for the fact that he was steering well clear of my teeth. Not that I'd bite him, of course. I know my friends and certainly any friend of Ezra's is good enough in my book. Ezra's happy here, with them, whether he will ever admit that or not. He has somewhere to belong and people to back him up. Everyone needs the support of their own kind now and again and I'm glad Ezra has found his.

"One never reveals all of one's talent's, Mr. Dunne, otherwise it's not nearly as entertaining." The fact was that Ezra hadn't taught me, I had taught him, but that wasn't the point.

Though clearly disappointed - not that I could ever imagine Dancer even being capable of learning any one of my talents - JD didn't press him. It was Chris that asked, "Anything else he can do?"

"Other than trampling miscreants, breaking in skulls, opening latches, untying knots, breaking down doors, jumping fences, and diving off cliffs? No, I think that about covers it."

There was a long pause. Then Nathan, who had raised his eyebrows, asked, "Diving off cliffs?"

Ezra grinned, hoping someone would take the bait. "Indeed. There was water beneath it, naturally. I hadn't even been sure that he would jump, but Chaucer is always full of surprises and an incredible amount of faith."

"This I have got to hear!"

They tagged along as Ezra lead me back to my customary stall, launching into the tale that had lead up to being chased down by a hoard of angry men all the way to a cliff's edge. None of the other horses would even consider jumping, of course, despite the fact that it had been a perfectly safe distance and by the time they had made it down we had been long gone.

We haven't ended up in that sort of trouble for a while now. Life hasn't been dull, though, not in this place with these men. There's something going on all the time and I honestly think it's for the best, for Ezra's best, and as long as he is happy than I am too.

-The End-

Note: typically "Patrick" is used for Ezra's middle name, but I was feeling contrary so I went with Percival. And perhaps I have been reading HP too much lately; can I help it that I adore Percy?

I intend to eventually write up a little drabble for each of the horses... eventually (as chapters under this title so "A day in the life of Peso" etc). I already have my little outlines all written up, so it's just a matter of filling in all the details. It may take a while, especially depending on the responses I get. Honestly, the reason I started this was because I got a large horse plushie that vaguely resembles Chaucer (it's nearly the size of a small shetland pony so it is quite large) and... Chaucer demanded his perspective be told. I couldn't deny him.


	2. Pony

A Day in the Life of…

Pony

Chapter Two

by Ami-chan

There's a slight breeze on the air and I turn into it, my eyes half closed to better enjoy the sensation and the moment. It's beautiful up here on this piece of land that my Chris bought for us. I remember the day we rode out here the first time and we decided that this was the property that we wanted – it was raining just slightly, just enough to soak my coat, but not enough to make us uncomfortable. Chris and I, we like the rain. The taste, the way the air smells, the gentle and rhythmic pattering of the falling rain that makes us sleepy and calms us down. It was almost perfect and Chris sat back in the saddle and looked around, then patted my neck.

"Whaddya think, Pony? This be all right for us?"

I snorted and turned my head to look back at Chris. We both knew it was the right choice. We sat there for some time just watching the rain and taking in the sights, then Chris had measured a bit of the property before we headed back to town. The next day he'd gotten the deed to the land and started work on the cabin.

Chris and I go pretty far back. As far back as I can remember, anyway. I can remember being cold and wet, newly born, and the first thing I can recall is seeing that man watching me struggle to stand. He didn't try to help me at all, just let me fall again and again until I'd finally found my legs enough to steady myself. Chris had smiled at me then guided me to my mother so I could get my first drink of milk.

I didn't have a name for quite some time and for a while I thought my name was "boy". "Good boy," Chris would say. Or, "That's a boy." Our bond was strong even then. Chris said I was a fine horse and that I was a perfect saddle horse because I didn't spook easily.

The first time Chris had put a halter on me I hadn't liked it, but after I tried to get it off – Chris laughing at my annoyed shaking and rolling – it didn't seem nearly as bad. The saddle had been worse, though it had been a long and slow process and Chris didn't try to rush or force me. He's a gentle man, at heart, and it's the gentle man I will always remember and the reason I tolerated his dark years.

"Are you ever going to name that horse?" Sarah had asked, more than once. She had suggested names over and over again, but Chris wasn't in a hurry to give me any sort of name. Chris had told Sarah he would name me when he found the right name because, "Nothin' fits."

Perhaps it was because Chris didn't know whether he was going to keep me or not. A rancher never knows, after all, and I saw a lot of horses come and go while Chris worked with me and saddle-trained me. Then one day Chris's old saddle horse, Jack, took a bad spill and hurt his leg. Jack was a friend of sorts and getting up in years, but Chris is nothing if not loyal and he tried to tend Jack's leg to see if the damage couldn't be healed. It couldn't, of course, so it wasn't so very surprising that Chris and Jack went on one last walk, out on the hill of that property not so very far from where Chris later buried Sarah and Adam.

That morning there was a light fog and the air smelled like dew and spring and everything good and wonderful. Chris didn't want to talk to me that morning and didn't have a cube of sugar or peppermint. He went straight for Jack and put his hand into his mane and just stood there for a while taking in the moment. Then he said, "Come on, Jack."

Jack knew, of course. He hurt, he was in pain, and he nodded at me as he limped on after Chris up to that hill. I knew, but that gunshot cracking the air, disturbing the early morning still was a shock and I cringed at even as I pressed against the fence rail. Chris spent the day digging a hole for Jack, not wanting him to go to the wild animals.

After Chris came back over the hill, covered in dirt and exhausted, he wouldn't even look at me as if he felt guilty. He probably did. Sarah had come out onto the porch with baby Adam in her arms and watched Chris's progress to the house. When he got to the porch Sarah asked him, "Are you going to call him Jack?" and looked at me.

There was a pause, Chris's eyes turning to me as he squinted into the sun. I waited. I had wondered, too, if he had not named me because he wouldn't give me the name of a living horse. But Chris shook his head. "His name ain't Jack."

I was relived because I didn't want to be Jack, but I still had no official name. It was a few more years before I did receive my current name and it was not Chris that named me, but little Adam, as he stood by the fence railing and held his hand to offer me a bit of apple. "Pretty pony!"

"No, Adam, he's a horse."

Adam didn't even glance at Chris, his eyes focused on me. "Pony," he insisted, then smiled brightly as I lowered my head to study my Chris's baby boy. Humans are so fragile, especially when they are young and they require more care and attention than a horse needs.

"Pony," Chris had repeated, his gaze turning from Adam to me. "Maybe you're right, Adam."

After that I was Pony. Chris and I went on trips to buy or sell horses or pick up supplies, though often times I was tied behind a wagon and only ridden if need be. Often times Buck and Beau came with us as well and that was fine because Beau and I got along.

That last trip back from selling horses I will always remember, the still smoldering fire and ashes drifting into my nostrils when the wind changed, before the cabin was in sight. I'd jerked out of step, alerting Chris that something was wrong and beside me Beau had lost his calm, lazy look. It's all a blur after that, though I can still clearly remember going over that hill and seeing the smoke rising from the remains of the cabin and then galloping toward it as if my life depended on it. There was screaming and frantic searching and nothing left but ashes and bones.

Chris went crazy after that. After the crying and screaming interspaced with stretches of eerie silence. Chris refused to let Buck help him bury Sarah and little Adam so all we could do was watch as he struggled with his task. It had to be his task and no one else's. There was little I could do to help most of the time and Buck tried and stuck by him for a lot of it.

There was lots of alcohol in those days. A lot of times where Chris would saddle me and I wouldn't move because I knew Chris would just fall off anyway. I watched over him as much as possible when we up and disappeared on Buck and Beau and I suppose Buck had decided that one time that it wasn't worth it to try to track us down again. No one could blame Buck for that, either, not with the violence Chris showed Buck's efforts to help.

"Why'd they have to die, Pony?" Chris would ask me, sometimes sober, sometimes not. "Why'd they have to die? Everything was just perfect."

I didn't have an answer to that and neither did he. My gentle Chris had darkened though I knew he was still the gentle soul I knew and loved, despite his seeming death wish. He wore widower's black, still mourned and ached even as his death count mounted – Chris never started anything, but his attitude attracted people wanting a fight and Chris always finished anything they started. I knew he still cared, even then.

Then one day we entered a small little town in the middle of nowhere with Chris a little more sober than usual because it was quite a distance between places. Maybe it also had to do with the sheer passing of time and that Chris was starting to learn to cope with the sadness. I don't know what happened while I was stabled, though I did recognize that Beau was there, too. The sound of noise and gunshots were familiar, but the sense of purpose that Chris had when he returned to me was nothing I had felt from him in ages. It was as if Chris had found himself again.

When Chris stayed longer than a day or week I knew that this was different and my suspicions were confirmed when Chris rode out to that property and asked if it was all right for us. Chris had never sold the land he had before and he never would, not with Sarah and Adam buried there. It could be a new start for us here though. Maybe Buck would join us again and it could be better this time.

I shifted and snorted as a familiar scent caught my nose and Chris looked up from where he was building his new cabin. A barn would be next.

Seeker appeared over the rise with Josiah easily sitting in his saddle. Josiah was one of Chris's friends, along with four other men that seemed unable to split from their joined destinies. I enjoyed Seeker's company as well as the companionship of the other horses, having sorely missed any real familiar friends of my own for years. Seeker understood that, too, having shared with me his solitary travels with Josiah.

They seem good for each other, these men, though I don't know what the greater purpose for their meeting was or why it seems to fit so well together. I only know that I can see my Chris being pieced back together a bit at a time as long as he has been here. I know that he is no longer solely wearing widower's black and I know that in some respects Buck and Chris have made peace. It's a long way from being "good" or being as perfect as it was before, but it is a start.

With a sigh I watch as Josiah offers to lend a hand and when Chris declines his help Josiah offers lunch, instead. Chris has always had to do things on his own and this is no different. Josiah understands penance and understands how rebuilding or building something for the first time to represent another place can be healing. Chris needs to build this cabin himself and I am here to see that he does.

I can imagine this place with a large barn, an improved and added on cabin and horses running free. I can already hear Chris's laughter and the ready smile he always had before and that is slowly returning. Perhaps someday I will be turned out into pasture to live out my days or perhaps, like Jack, I will take one final walk with Chris and he will bury me on that hill.

In the long run it's all the same. I have seen and experienced so much – the light and the dark, the happy and the rage of sadness, the utter collapse of humanity and the gradual rise back to the top – and I still continue to see more day by day. Chris and I, we go way back, and even if I had nothing to do with his current recovery I like to think that maybe I was the one thing keeping him from going over the edge. The one thing in Chris's life that has remained stable and unwavering, a calm nonjudgmental observer in all of these events, though I am also a reminder of that picture perfect past that is only perfect because all Chris can recall are the good times. Oh, the good times were many, but I can also remember the imperfect times when Sarah was irate about something Chris had done or the scare when Adam had wandered off. It doesn't matter now, though, tragedy and loss tint everything into a blind and encompassing perfection.

As long as Chris is healing that is all that matters.

Josiah and Chris finish their lunch and though Chris seems to debate about continuing work on the cabin he so desperately wants to finish now, we both know it's time to go back to town. My saddle is thrown on and cinched and then Chris is climbing into the saddle. It's a familiar weight and is somehow comforting. The winding path to town is just another step to an adventure and to the return of the man I have always known beneath all of the hurt and anger.

Seeker glances at me with wise eyes and nods. He understands the pain, as well, and has dealt with human rage and hurt and guilt and fear. Maybe this place is good for all of us.

-End-


End file.
